Double-Edged Detective

That was a lie. It had everything to do with her.

Her gaze told him she knew it. “I’m not stupid, Detective. You talked about combining murder cases. You said I was damned lucky to be alive. And you said my attack was the fourth in four years, all during the fourth week of October.” She paused and her eyes bored into his. “You think the man who broke into my apartment killed those other women.”

Ryker clenched his jaw. How was he supposed to answer her? He’d been given specific orders by Deputy Chief Mike Davis to drop his crusade to connect the murders.

“Obviously, next week will be the fourth week in October. If you’re right about him, that means he’ll kill again.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re here because you think he’ll come after me, aren’t you?”

Ryker opened his mouth, but immediately closed it and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t deny her words, but he didn’t want to confirm them, either. He wasn’t sure why the killer hadn’t tried again to kill Nicole. He’d like to think it was because the man didn’t know where she was, but that was highly unlikely. Her name had been in the paper and on television the day after the break-in.

Across from him, Nicole swallowed audibly. “Why hasn’t he come after me already?” she asked as if reading his mind.

Ryker’s own mouth went dry at her question. He shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s obsessive. The fact that he only kills once a year attests to that. For whatever reason, the last full week in October has some extremely important meaning for him.”

“This week,” she muttered. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Get out of town, preferably permanently, but at least for the next week or two.”

“I can’t do that.” Nicole bit her lower lip and looked down at her hands, then peered up at him, her green eyes hard as jade. “I bought double-locking dead bolts, even for the balcony doors. If you want to, you could check them. See if they’re strong enough. I could make you a cup of coffee.”

Ryker grimaced inwardly. There were very few things in the world he’d rather do than get to know Nicole Beckham better. He couldn’t deny the sexual attraction he’d felt for her ever since he’d first seen her a year ago, when he’d responded to the 911 call about the break-in.

Nicole Beckham was stunning in an understated way. Her hair was the color of old gold, and cut weirdly—shorter in back than in front. It suited her small, sharp features and heart-shaped face. If things were different, he’d accept her invitation in a heartbeat.

But things weren’t different. He was a detective with the major crimes division of the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, and she was the victim of a crime. There was no way they would ever have any other relationship than that.

As much as he wished he could say yes, he shook his head. He couldn’t go with her to her apartment for more than one reason. If the killer was watching her, he’d be tipped off that she had a bodyguard. Not to mention that the guy may have seen Ryker before, at other crime scenes. Serial killers were notorious for visiting crime scenes in the guise of an innocent onlooker. The killer might recognize him as a detective.

“Who installed your locks?”

“I called a locksmith from the phone book. He said they were the top-of-the-line residential locks.”

“Then I’m sure they are. Look. I know you don’t want me in your apartment. Just accept that I’ve decided this is the best restaurant in Mandeville, and you’re the best chef.”

Nicole pushed her chair back and stood. “Have you always eaten all your meals out?”

“Ninety percent anyway. I’m not much of a cook.”

“So where did you eat before you started coming here?”

Ryker smiled up at her. “The Lakeview Diner,” he said blandly, naming a fly-specked dive down near the lake.

Nicole bit her lip. It looked as if she was trying to keep from laughing. “Well then, thank you for choosing L’Orage, Detective Delancey.”

“Call me Ryker,” he said.

“Good night, Detective.”

RYKER SAT IN HIS PARKED CAR on the side of the road about three-fourths of a block east of the restaurant. He watched the time. As always, by ten minutes after eleven, Nicole appeared. Her golden-brown hair shone in the light from the streetlamps as she walked confidently along the sidewalk with a tote bag slung over her shoulder.

Ryker knew what was inside the bag. Her knives. Every decent chef had their own set. He also knew Nicole’s knife case was missing one knife. Her attacker had fled out the back door with it when her roommate came home early and interrupted him.

The idea of the killer having that super-sharp knife that was engraved with Nicole’s initials really bothered Ryker. The sheriff’s department had managed to keep her name out of the papers after the first mention. But even if by some miracle the killer didn’t already know her name, knowing she was a chef and having her initials on the knife gave him a clear advantage in finding her.

Ryker waited until she was half a block beyond his car before he started his engine. His BMW 3 Series sedan started quietly and purred almost inaudibly. He pulled forward at a snail’s pace, keeping her in his sight.

The short three blocks from the restaurant to her apartment building were well lit and open, an ideal neighborhood to walk to and from work. But Ryker would be much happier if she drove.

After her near miss last October, Nicole had quit her position as executive chef at the finest restaurant in Chef Voleur. She’d moved to Mandeville, several miles away, and taken this job.

Both Mandeville and Chef Voleur were in St. Tammany Parish, so her new job and her new apartment were still in his jurisdiction.

As Ryker watched her walk, and lectured himself about eyeing her shapely backside accentuated by the snug-fitting black jeans she wore, he noticed a movement in the shadows behind her.

A figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt staggered out of the shadows of a side street, less than a hundred feet behind Nicole. His head was down, his hands were in his pockets and he weaved slightly as he walked.

Ryker tensed. Nicole’s attacker had worn a dark hoodie and jeans. It was the only description Ryker had, because Nicole had seen nothing but a silhouette holding a knife. And her roommate, who’d surprised the attacker, had barely glimpsed his back as he’d fled through the kitchen door.

Pulling his Sig Sauer from his underarm holster, Ryker pressed the button to roll down the car window. The man had come from the direction of the restaurant. Had the woman who’d looked at Nicole and made a call been giving instructions to this punk?

Nicole’s shoulders stiffened visibly, she pulled her tote bag tighter against her body and she lifted her chin. She’d noticed the man.

The guy in the hoodie stumbled, and staggered forward a few steps, as if trying to regain his balance. His awkward dance could have been a misstep, or it could have been designed to get him twenty feet closer to Nicole.

Whatever his intent, that was twenty feet too close.

Ryker killed his engine and got out of the car, not closing the driver’s-side door. He moved silently and quickly across the street and crept up behind the hooded guy.

The guy lifted his head. Had he noticed Ryker? He didn’t turn around. But he did take his hands out of his pockets, clench his fists and push himself to a quicker pace.

“Hey, lady,” he rasped, reaching out with one hand. “Lady, stop.”

Nicole’s shoulders tensed under the short-sleeved green top she wore. Her head turned slightly, acknowledging the guy’s voice.

“Lady, I just need to—”

Ryker didn’t wait to find out what he needed to do. He grabbed the back of the hoodie and jerked the lightweight sideways and threw him up against a chain-link fence.

Nicole spun around with a small cry.

The guy whooped and hollered in a squeaky voice. Ryker stuck his gun barrel just behind the guy’s ear. “Shut up and freeze!” he ordered him.

The guy’s legs collapsed underneath him and suddenly Ryker’s hand on the back of his shirt was the only thing holding him up.

“Stand up! Get your hands up.” Ryker jerked the hood down and pushed the side of his face against the fence. In the lights from the streetlamps, Ryker saw that he was a kid—eighteen or nineteen at the most.

“I didn’t do nothing,” the kid whined. “You’re hurting me.”

“Not yet I’m not. Shut up or I will. Spread your feet.”